Tumbling Mirth by J. Douglas Harvey

Author:J. Douglas Harvey [Harvey, J. Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55199-479-6
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 1986-04-05T00:00:00+00:00

Fall Out the Officers

There was a graffito pencilled on the wall of a cubicle in the gentlemen’s at an RCAF station. It said: “If the Commanding Officer calls, tell him I can only handle one shit at a time.”

* * *

I had the pleasure of going overseas on the Aquitania, a quaint old tub that carried many thousands of Canadians to war. As a sprog Pilot Officer I shared a cabin with three Australian gentlemen who were also navigators and also Pilot Officers.

We were deep into our bunks, “pressing blankets” as the expression goes, when the horn sounded for boat drill one afternoon. We all thought the same thing – to hell with it.

Ten minutes later our cabin door flew open, and a loud, authoritative voice hollered, “Get up on deck!”

Without opening his eyes, one of the Aussies said, “Fuck off.”

“What did you say, young man?” queried the authoritative voice.

The Aussie opened his eyes, and saw the large figure of the CO Troops, who happened to be a Group Captain, glaring directly at him. Leaping from his bunk, he ran to the Group Captain, placed his sleeve next to the Groupie’s, and started counting the stripes.

On his own sleeve he counted: “One.” On the Groupie’s sleeve he slowly counted: “One, two, three, four. Jesus!” he cried, and scampered out the door.

The Old Man stood there flabbergasted for a moment, but suddenly, as the rest of us held our breath, he broke out into loud laughter. Then, his eyes twinkling, he said, “Better get on deck, boys.”

* * *

Jimmy was from New Zealand and a “dinkum cobber” to use the NewZie colloquialism for good friend. In the spring of 1943 we were flying with the RAF’s No. 35 squadron of Bomber Command. Before the year was out we were sharing a tiny room in a German POW camp.

The incident I recall most about Jimmy has nothing to do with flying or the POW camp. It centres around what I always considered a rather archaic military custom: saluting.

Jim and I, both aircrew Sergeants at the time, were in Cambridge when we walked past a young British Army Lieutenant. I saluted him, but to my surprise, Jim just nodded his head politely and said something about it being a nice day.

The Lieutenant swung around and came after us. “Sergeant,” he barked at Jim, “you failed to salute me.”

“You are absolutely right, sir.”

“Don’t you recognize the rank I hold, Sergeant?”

“You’re a First Lieutenant in some kind of army outfit, I think,” replied Jim.

The Lieutenant choked on his words. “I’m bloody well a commissioned officer of the Royal Engineers, Sergeant,” he snapped. “And you failed to salute me!”

“Well, sir, it’s just a misunderstanding on your part. We New Zealanders only salute officers of the Royal New Zealand Air Force. There is, however, one exception,” Jim added gratuitously. “We do salute officers of the RAF, a sister service.”

“That’s a crock of horseshit, Sergeant! You know as well as I do that King’s Orders and Regulations apply to all junior ranks in the matter of their paying respects by saluting.

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